


Iron and Cradles

by witbond



Category: Cookie Run (Video Game)
Genre: fairy cookie is never named but that's who it is, i just like faeries :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witbond/pseuds/witbond
Summary: In which Whipped Cream Cookie ventures into the Twisted Maze Grove against all common sense, meets only one faery, and uncovers his deepest truth.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Iron and Cradles

It was a foolish decision; Whipped Cream Cookie knew that much. But he had never claimed to be wise. He tiptoed through the house, scarcely daring to breathe lest he wake his mother, slipping various items into his pack. A flashlight, a ball of bright red yarn, a half-empty box of matches, a rather dull knife—anything that might be useful, he took. His heart thrummed in his ears.

The forest surrounding the town was strictly off-limits. No one was to set foot there. People called it the Twisted Maze Grove, when they dared to speak of it directly. The trees grow in clusters, so gnarled and tangled together that sunlight can scarcely break through the foliage. Cast in darkness, the animals there are said to be strange, and dangerous. Whipped Cream had listened to the tales, told in hushed voices, of bucks with luminescent antlers, whose warm light drew you in close, whereupon the deer would bare its fangs; of spiders, the size of a man’s head, with venom that could burn to the bone in seconds; of wildcats that prowled the forest floor on hands and feet, that tackled and strangled their prey. Any who went in never returned.

Whipped Cream had listened to these particular stories with much disdain. But listen he had, gleaning what information he could. He wasn’t afraid of carnivorous deer or giant spiders or cats with hands, and he doubted their existence altogether. He was afraid of the thing that no one would speak of: faeries.

Infested, that was the word. Everyone knew that the Twisted Maze Grove was infested with faeries. Nasty, treacherous little creatures. Deceiving travelers into signing away their souls with clever words and singsong promises. Ruthlessly intelligent, yet heartless. A faery would not hesitate to maim, or kill, so long as it brought some semblance of amusement.

Whipped Cream shouldered his pack. If he did not return home come morning, it would be because he fell prey to a faery’s guiles, not because a deer ate him. He forced his bedroom window open, slowly, so that it would not creak and groan.

He could not say why the forest called to him so. Despite all the tales, despite all he knew, it sang to him, and desire stabbed him straight through the heart. Even now, his palms clammy from anxiety, as he looked to the forest’s edge, he saw how the trees’ dark leaves shone silver in the moonlight, and all he could think was that it looked very beautiful. Something was waiting for him there, he was certain; he could feel it. Perhaps what he felt was just his own curiosity. A curiosity that would likely get him killed, he reflected grimly.

But his mind was made up. He heaved himself out the window.

∞

Whipped Cream had spent many hours admiring the forest from a distance. From afar, it had not looked so frightening. Now it loomed before him, and the trees twisted cruelly and their skeletal branches beckoned him— _ come, come, come.  _ He stood at the edge, and for the first time that night, his resolve wavered.

He looked back to town. It was not so far, just down the hill. He could go home still, and forget this absurd venture. He could crawl through the open window and kick the pack of supplies far under his bed, and forget it. Forget about all of it. And then he could curl up in his warm, soft bed, and be safe.

He grinned. Funny, how the dark woods were suddenly much more appealing. He slid his pack from his shoulders and pulled out the yarn, and his knife. Even against the forest’s gloom, the yarn stood out, bright red and cheery. He cut off a strand and looped it around a low-hanging branch, and he tied it into a firm, tight knot. He would mark his own path. He would not be lost here.

So long as he kept his wits about him, he would survive this. Whipped Cream squared his shoulders, and he stepped into the faeries’ forest.

∞

The moonlight that shone through the canopy was slim. Whipped Cream had to trust that his footing was solid as he trudged along. The flashlight he used sparingly, not trusting the battery to hold through the night.

There were no natural trails that he could find, and in fact, the forest seemed altogether devoid of animal life. There were only the tall trees and dark-leaved bushes and long grass that seemed to grasp and pull at his ankles with every step he took. He carefully avoided any thoughts of faeries, lest he summon one, and instead admired the forest’s beauty. Because if he looked past his own apprehension, that was all it was: beautiful. Whipped Cream set his hand to a tree trunk, and he could near feel the life that thrummed off it. The forest was as alive as he was. And it was as aware of him, as he was of it.

He found the thought strangely comforting. Reluctantly, he let his hand fall away. He continued to walk. He did not hurry, settling into an almost leisurely pace. He let his thoughts and worries whistle past him. The thing he sought would reveal itself when it chose. No need to fret.

Time melded into one. He did not know how long he walked for. Maybe it was an hour, maybe it was only minutes. His reverie was only broken by the thick undergrowth he had grown accustomed to abruptly thinning, giving way to a clearing. He stumbled out into the sudden openness and fell hard to his knees.

Whipped Cream shook his head at his clumsiness, and he slowly pushed himself back to his feet, brushing off stray bits of grass and dirt from his hands and pants. He looked around himself. The clearing was vast, a near perfect circle that the trees seemed to bend away from. Clusters of violet wildflowers were scattered about the clearing, and Whipped Cream marked how many little toadstools pushed up from the earth. The moon hung high overhead, and the stars here seemed brighter than they did in town.

And, squarely in the center of it all, there was a pond. Not a particularly large one, but not exactly small, either. The deep blue water glittered dazzlingly in the moonlight. Whipped Cream, with a sudden uneasiness, felt that he stood at the very heart of the forest.

A pair of white ducks drifted serenely over the pond’s surface. The first animals Whipped Cream had seen in the entirety of the forest. He peered at them more closely, and his breath caught in his throat. They weren’t ducks at all. They were swans. He had never seen swans so close before. He knew he had to get a better look; his heart burned with curiosity. He shrugged off his pack, setting it down on the ground, and he began to pick his way through the clearing, careful not to tread upon any flowers or mushrooms, as much as to preserve the beauty of the place as to not incur the forest’s wrath.

Dropping to a low crouch, he crept as close to the water’s edge as he dared, which wasn’t very close at all, but he didn’t want to risk startling the creatures into flight. And then, still crouching, he sat, and he watched the swans. The grass was cold and slightly damp, but the proximity to such unfiltered beauty warmed him from the inside out. The swans were pressed close to one another, their long necks bent and entwined in a declaration of love. Stray droplets of water glistened against their alabaster feathers like lost stars. They were like carved porcelain. Elegance and perfection embodied in an animal. Contrasting so strongly against the black of night, they were almost their own source of light.

Whipped Cream could watch them forever. The larger of the two lifted its head, and briefly shook out its wings, preening at a few ruffled feathers. Once again it folded its wings, and then unmistakably turned its head to meet Whipped Cream’s gaze. For a long breathless moment, the swan held him in its regard. Finally, it turned away, and it bent its head over its mate’s.

The significance of the moment didn’t escape Whipped Cream. He grinned, a silly grin he simply couldn’t contain. The swan had seen him, an unknown creature, and had spent a moment trying to determine if he was a threat to it and its mate. It plainly decided he wasn’t, and granted him permission to watch them.

So watch them he did, marking how the water seemed to simply give way to their slow passage. He could sit here, crouched uncomfortably in the grass, watching a pair of swans resting together, for all eternity, and he’d be happy. Their beauty was all the nourishment his simple soul needed.

The back of his neck prickled, and he was slammed back to reality. Something watched him, and he did not need to turn around to know what it was. In his entrancement, he had near forgotten whose forest he was in. He sat very still, ignoring the cramps that suddenly roared to life in his knees—how long had he been watching the swans? His mind raced. Perhaps if he moved fast enough, and left the forest at once, he could avoid encountering the faery altogether, perhaps. He just needed to find his pack—he quietly cursed himself for taking it off in the first place—and then run like hell.

It wasn’t much of a plan at all. He tried not to think about that, and he slowly pushed himself to his feet. His knees screamed. He grit his teeth and waited for the pain to recede, making a show of stretching, forcing calm into his movements. Maybe he’d have the advantage if they believed he was not aware of their presence. Maybe. He turned around and forced himself forward, despite the pain that still burned in his legs, quickly scanning the clearing.

Finding his discarded pack turned out to be easier than he expected. He found it almost right away. Because the faery was perched right on top of it, staring at him with wide green eyes. Of course. Whipped Cream cursed himself doubly for taking it off, and the faery grinned gleefully at him.

She was small, but not as small as the stories about faeries had led him to believe. He expected something akin to a swarm of insects, like parasitic butterflies. She was the size of a large housecat, and yet, she was curiously human. Despite the translucent wings like a rainbow of stained glass, the green eyes that were too green, and her very white teeth that were like little needles. Her curly hair was swept up from her face, and pinned in place by a shockingly bright daffodil. She had hands, though clawed, and her bare feet poked out from the hem of her flowery dress. Her dress, like all things green, was silver in the moonlight.

Whipped Cream’s mind reeled. He had no idea what to do, he realized. He had come to the faeries’ forest unprepared to meet a faery face to face. He had avoided that possibility in all his planning, because the prospect had terrified him. His breath came out faster, and his heart pumped raw panic into his blood. Maybe he should fall to his knees and beg for mercy and safe passage home. Or maybe he should fling himself wildly at her, and try to snatch the pack from beneath her; maybe he could run fast enough to escape her anger and affront. Or maybe he should simply bow his head to her will, she was so much more powerful, he would never be able to stand up against her magic, the forest would have its way with him. Or—

Or, none of that. Abruptly, Whipped Cream recognized the faery in his thoughts. She was measuring him, testing the limits of her new toy before she began her real play. Once he recognized the source, it was easier to ignore all her insidious suggestions. He firmly set aside all that was not himself and looked at the faery with clearer eyes. She was a faery, and magical, and unpredictable. But he was bigger, and he had a mind that was his own, with perhaps a stronger wit than she anticipated.

So, silencing his fear, he crossed his arms and looked down at the faery. “That’s my pack you’re sitting on,” he said.

The faery’s grin slipped from her face, and she narrowed her eyes. Whipped Cream sensed he had ruined some part of her fun. “I know. Whose else could it be?” Her voice was light and airy, but venomous. “I am sitting here to make you look at me.” And she lifted her chin, pinning Whipped Cream in her sharp gaze.

It was very hard to not look aside from those green eyes. Invasive, probing. “I certainly am looking at you. What do you want?” Whipped Cream asked, and his voice came out tighter than he would have liked.

She didn’t answer immediately. She only stared. Whipped Cream held her gaze, until finally she was the one who turned aside and looked instead at a nearby toadstool. She was scowling, and Whipped Cream felt as though he had won.

_ Won what? _ he asked himself. But the answer evaded him.

“Perhaps I only wanted your attention,” the faery said haughtily. “And I got that. You know I’m here now. So.” She drew herself up onto her feet, and she stepped off the pack. The grass came halfway up her calves. “I suppose you can take your pack and be on your merry way, then.”

“Wait, what?” Whipped Cream could scarcely believe his eyes, but the faery was sauntering away, away from him and his crumpled pack. She plopped herself down in the middle of a patch of flowers. She tilted her head expectantly at him.

“I believe you heard me just fine?” she said, mimicking his bewildered tone. “Take your pack, and go.” It sounded like an order, but still Whipped Cream stood where he was, braced for some new trickery to rear its ugly head. None came. The faery appeared to have lost interest in him, turning her attention to the little violet flowers she sat upon. She tugged one out of the ground, roots and all.

Slowly, Whipped Cream stooped to gather up his pack, and he slung it over one shoulder. The faery began eating the flower, taking delicate bites of each petal. She wasn’t looking at him. “So. You’re really just letting me leave?” he asked. “No tricks, no games for my soul?”

“Please. You’d be no fun.”

Whipped Cream frowned. Why did he feel offended? “What makes you say that?”

The faery spared him a glance and looked him up and down, mouth twisted into a little frown. Then she gave a snort of disdain, and turned back to her careful consumption of the flower. “So you’re even dumber than you look. I see.”

“Excuse—”

“ _ Besides _ ,” the faery said sharply, cutting off Whipped Cream’s indignant response, “you’ll be back sooner than later.”

“Only a fool would return to this place after escaping it.”

Her green eyes flashed. “You’ll be back,” she said again. Whipped Cream turned around, and began to walk into the dense forest. The faery’s voice rose behind him. “You know you will.” He bunched his shoulders together and refused to look back at her, refused to acknowledge the final words she flung at him. He found one of his yarn waypoints and left the clearing and faery behind.

The hike through the forest took longer than he remembered, and he knew a moment of panic. He was trapped, he thought, trapped in a labyrinth of the faeries’ making. Stuck in an endless cycle of retracing his footsteps. But he soon caught sight of thin rays of sunlight, fighting to break through the dense foliage. He blinked. Morning already? He came to where he had tied his very first yarn marker, and for a moment, he simply stood there. Now that he was finally here, he felt an odd trepidation about leaving. The forest gave way to cool, open air, and early dawn stained the horizon a hazy purple. And there was town, sprawled messily at the bottom of the hill. Home. Yes.

Whipped Cream took one step forward and out of the forest’s embrace, and he staggered at the shocking wave of exhaustion that hit him. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to drop to the ground right then and there and sink into unconsciousness. He forced himself forward and slowly made his way down the hill. He glanced back at the forest more than once.

The faery had been right; he was a fool, after all. Come nightfall, he’d return. His heart would not be denied.

∞

Just as the faery predicted, Whipped Cream returned to the little clearing in the forest the very next night. He had considered waiting at least a day, to prove her wrong, but found that he couldn’t. He caught a glimpse of her in a bush, smirking, and she vanished so quickly he wondered if he had imagined her. The swans were in the pond again, and again, he crouched by the water’s edge and watched them. And when he wearied of that, he stood and he left the forest, unchallenged.

He returned, night after night, to watch the swans. Sometimes there were only two, sometimes more, and sometimes just one, forlornly skimming the surface. One night he had the privilege of seeing one step out onto the bank, shake the water from its lovely feathers, and take flight. He watched it go until it was little more than a white speck in the sky, another distant star. His nightly sojourns left him exhausted, but he couldn’t imagine sleep being more fulfilling than witnessing the undeniable beauty of the moonlit swans.

Some nights he saw the faery, and others he did not. She was the only faery he encountered. She broke his concentration with maddening riddles and questions, but it was only annoying. If she were attempting anything more sinister, Whipped Cream couldn’t sense it. He began to suspect that the stories about faeries were greatly exaggerated.

One night, the faery joined him as he watched the swans. She sat cross-legged nearby, chin cupped in her hands. It felt almost companionable. Until she said, “You know, iron keeps faeries at bay. Everyone knows that we can’t stand the stuff.”

Whipped Cream sighed. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m just saying, if you really wanted me to leave you alone, all you’d need to do is bring some iron with you. Then I wouldn’t be able to come near you and pester you all night long.”

“You’re not so bad.” Whipped Cream paused, surprised at himself. Then he shrugged it off—it was only the truth. “Besides, I’m allergic to iron. Mother doesn’t keep any in the house.”

The faery stood up. She cocked her head at him, and grinned, and Whipped Cream suddenly couldn’t stand the joyful glint in her eyes. “Well. Isn’t that a nasty little coincidence?” And with that, she spun away on her heel and leapt into flight, translucent wings buzzing rapidly. She zipped away and vanished into the forest’s gloom. Whipped Cream stared after her, pondering her chilling words. Was it a threat, or—

He veered sharply. A shadowy thought was forming there, in the back of his mind, and the faery’s visits only fed it. He would not prod it, would not acknowledge it. It had no power, and it could not hurt him, so long as he ignored it.

∞

There came a night that no swans came to the pond at all. After a week of nightly visits, Whipped Cream came upon the clearing to find the pond still and bereft of life. He was surprised at the enormity of his disappointment, but found the thought of returning home so soon unappealing. The night was mild, and a light breeze stirred his hair. He’d stay, just for a little while longer.

He laid down and stretched out on his back, tucking his pack underneath his head like a pillow. The long grasses were surprisingly soft. He breathed in deep, relishing in the simple, strong scent of rich earth. He traced patterns in the glittering mess of stars overhead, and he felt strangely at peace.  _ In the Twisted Maze Grove, of all places _ , he thought to himself, and smiled.

He must have dozed, because he woke to a sudden weight on his chest. The faery stood directly on his breastbone, peering down at him curiously. At his opening eyes, she startled. “Oh. I thought maybe you had died.”

“If I’m breathing, I’m not dead.” Whipped Cream groaned and lifted his hands to rub at his eyes. “I just fell asleep. Get off me,” he added, and he was surprised when she immediately obliged.

“No swans tonight,” the faery observed. She came to sit down beside Whipped Cream’s head, drawing her knees up to her chin. She had grown more accustomed to being around him, Whipped Cream realized.  _ And I, around her _ .

He shifted, and turned his eyes to the sky. They tottered along the line of an uneasy friendship. The faery was pesky, possibly dangerous, but he had come to appreciate her company. The connection between them was plain to see, no matter how it wavered.

The silence stretched between them. Whipped Cream nearly dozed off again, when the faery’s voice broke through his muddled thoughts, rousing him to full wakefulness. “Do you like it here?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

The faery shrugged her little shoulders. “Here, the forest, this clearing. Do you like it? You keep coming back, night after night.”

“Um.” Whipped Cream hesitated―was this a trick? But her tone sounded genuine… “You know,” he said, after some thought, “it’s strange, but I suppose I do. The forest is beautiful, once you stop being afraid of it.”

“Then,” the faery’s voice dropped to the barest of whispers, “why don’t you stay here? Stay with me. With the swans. You don’t have to go back to that rotten town.” She reached down and touched Whipped Cream’s hair, twisting one of his curly locks around her finger.

He sat up very quickly. She had never touched him before, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it. Suppressing a shudder, he said, “The forest is lovely, really. But it’s not where I belong. I wouldn’t want to stay here forever.” And if some part of him protested,  _ yes yes yes I do _ , he ignored it. He had grown rather skilled at shutting out his own inner voice. “My home’s in town, with my mother,” he went on to say.

“But,” the faery said, “what if it’s not? What if I told you that you belong here?”

“I would say you were trying to trap me here, to steal my soul.”

She snorted. “I think you’ve noticed that faeries don’t exactly do that. Nor do we lie.”

Whipped Cream glanced back at the faery, and she returned his gaze coolly. He looked away after only a second; her green-eyed stare was too intense. “You don’t have to  _ lie  _ to manipulate the truth to your own benefit,” he muttered.

“If some part of you didn’t truly belong in this forest, do you think you’d find yourself so drawn here?” The faery was persistent. Putting a voice to every question Whipped Cream had dared not ask himself over the past week.

Whipped Cream closed his eyes. He took several fluttery breaths. He fumbled for an excuse. “For all my life, I’ve… struggled. With this feeling that, that there’s something missing from my life. Something vital. It’s like there’s something wrong, deep inside of me.” He clasped his hands together in his lap and squeezed, tighter and tighter. “I’m not sure how, or why, but I know this forest has the answers I need.”

“Ah, yes, the cursed forest full of twisted, nasty faeries like me must hold all the answers to this little existential crisis of yours. No significance there, I’m sure,” the faery said dryly. She shook her head. “Are you even listening to yourself?” She sprang suddenly to her feet and stretched. She continued, “Besides, I’m fairly certain you’ve already found your answer. You just refuse to admit it to yourself.”

How did she know? “I-I…” Whipped Cream sputtered, and then lost the words before they could even form. She always knew. She always knew what thoughts tormented him, no matter how fervently he tried to deny them.

“It’s not hard. You’re so open with your thoughts, the whole world can see them,” the faery said in response to the question he hadn’t even asked. Her eyes gleamed. “But enough of this. I tire of this game. It was amusing at first, but now it’s just frustrating.”

“Game—?” Whipped Cream started to ask, but the faery shot him such a nasty glare that he clamped his mouth shut immediately. He stared down at the grass growing beneath him. He felt dizzy, the great expanse of his life looming before him like a black abyss. He was going to stumble, fall, and lose himself forever. Teetering, teetering, dancing on tiptoes along that sheer edge, daring himself to misstep―

“No,” he said, firmly, as much as to himself as the faery. “No, this is a trick. Like the first night I came here. You’re making me think what you want me to think.” He crossed his arms resolutely. If he believed in it hard enough, perhaps it would be true.

At his words, the faery snarled, an especially vicious sound considering her size. “You are so _stubborn!_ ” she shrieked. She balled her hands into fists. “Fine! If you won’t say it, _I_ will.” She shot up in the air, wings buzzing furiously behind her. “You want to know what your problem is? You want to know what’s _wrong_ with you?” As she hissed out the questions, she fluttered closer to Whipped Cream. Too close for comfort. He said nothing. He stared wide-eyed at her face, so contorted with rage it was near alien. Her frustration radiated off her in waves. “Your _problem_ ,” she declared, “is your so-called mother forgot to hang iron above the cradle. That’s where it all began, and where it all comes back to.”

Whipped Cream’s mind reeled. He stared at the faery, and she grinned at him in grim satisfaction, baring her needlepoint teeth. Frantically, he began dissecting her choice of words:  _ so-called  _ mother? He had never looked very similar to Cassonade―he was lanky and sharp angles and she was short and stocky, brown skin glowing with health and vitality. But, that didn’t have to mean anything. And of course he knew of the tradition of hanging iron above a baby’s cradle, though he didn’t know what purpose it was meant to serve. And in there lay the disturbing bit.  _ The  _ cradle, the faery had specified. Not  _ his  _ cradle.

His mouth felt dry. What was she implying?

The faery let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Oh, little changeling, you think I cannot sense how my words make your heart pound? You already know what I am implying, for how could you not?”

Changeling? Whipped Cream decided he didn’t like that word. He was cold, suddenly very cold. And he didn’t want to be here, in this damnable forest, a moment longer. Forget the nightly swan-watching. Forget his need to discover something, anything, about himself.

_ The truth doesn’t care if it’s to your liking. _

But he cared. He stood up, quickly gathering up his pack, blood roaring in his ears. There were thoughts, thoughts he didn’t like, thoughts he would give no credence to. He would think of nothing at all. He was at the precipice of discovery, but he would run instead.

He sprinted across the clearing—he could find his way back to town with his eyes closed, the forest had so entwined itself in his heart. And he knew if he acknowledged it, he would know more than the simple path that led home. The forest would open its secrets to him, and in turn, it would devour him.

The faery’s voice rang out behind him. “The truth remains no matter where you go! You know what you are!” Don’t listen; don’t let those words sink in. Whipped Cream raised his hands and cupped them over his ears. The trees whispered, singsong and full of love:  _ Come back, come back.  _ Their reaching branches snapped across his face as he ran. He plugged his ears harder, but the voices were in his head.  _ Don’t you see _ ?  _ You’re already home. Please don’t run from us. _

“No, no, no, no!” he roared, and burst out from the forest’s grasp, stumbling out into cool night air and blissful silence. The lights from town beamed at him, pale yellow and orange. He ran down the hill without sparing a single glance back to the forest. It was only later, when he was safely inside Cassonade’s house, the front door bolted and latched behind him, that the full brunt of his cowardice hit him. He sagged to the floor and put his face in his hands.

He feared nothing other than himself.

∞

He could not go back. He could never go back. Something had nearly happened that night—something terrible, he insisted to himself. The faeries very nearly captured his soul. He was lucky he escaped at all.

But he hadn’t run from the faeries, or even the forest’s loving embrace. He had run from himself.

Whipped Cream groaned and flung an arm over his eyes, trying to will himself into sleep. The traitorous thoughts came and they plagued at him like a flock of crows, plucking at his conscience. The week that had followed after his last visit to the forest had been the longest of his life. He could barely bring himself to eat, despite all his mother’s pleading and gentle coaxing. The house’s lights burned too bright, and a constant headache pounded at the back of his skull, leaving him queasy and weak.

He no longer dared to sleep at night. Not since he dreamed of the faery. She had been surrounded by swans, her eyes bright and merry. She smiled at him. And it had been genuine, without rancor. “Come,” she whispered. “Come home.” He tore himself away then, with a voiceless cry, and fell abruptly into wakefulness. And he found himself not in his room at all, but halfway up the hill that led to the forest. It still had a hold on him, and it would do everything in its power to lure him back. And so would she.

At least by sleeping during the day, he could reasonably expect his mother to notice if he began sleepwalking again.

His mother was a whole other set of problems. Cassonade had come to regard him with a glint of fear in her dark eyes. Was his behavior truly so unsettling? He supposed it had to be. She barely spoke to him, and the other day, when she touched his forehead to check for a fever, he noticed that her hand was trembling.

Whipped Cream found himself often pondering what the faery had said to him. Iron above the cradle. His so-called mother. Changeling. He pondered it, until Cassonade seemed little more than a stranger to him. The few times she would meet his eyes, he saw himself reflected in their dark depths. Pale and gangly, he was a monster to himself.

He wondered what Cassonade saw.

Sleep refused him. With a heavy sigh, he gave up, and opened his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling, tracing the crevices in the white paint. All he could see in their shapes were trees. Trees with sturdy trunks and reaching branches, branches that reached to him and beckoned him and―

Not helping.

Nothing was helping. Not sleep, not food that made him want to gag, not laying in bed for hours on end, staring into nothing. Iron. Cradle. Mother. Whipped Cream sat up, flinging off his pile of blankets. His thoughts were inescapable, and he was tired, and he wanted an answer.

An answer from Cassonade herself.

∞

For a time, Whipped Cream simply stood in the doorway, watching Cassonade. She still hadn’t noticed him. She sat in her faux-velvet chair, bent over another embroidery project. Her low humming―a mindless tune―filled the room. Whipped Cream couldn’t explain to himself why he hesitated, so he watched instead, absorbing the smallest of details he hadn’t bothered to notice before. Like the sloping shape of her strong chin, the single black freckle on the back of her left hand, the gray streaks running through her tidy bun, and the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth (were those new?).

He finally forced himself to step forward into the living room. “Mother?” he began, falteringly.

Cassonade startled, looking up from her stitching. Her eyes were wide. Whipped Cream couldn’t blame her; he had barely left his bed all week. But then Cassonade’s face melted into a warm, relieved smile. “Whipped Cream!” she exclaimed, delighted. “Are you feeling better, dear?”

“Um, yeah.” He wasn’t, really. “I—”

“Oh, good! I’ve never seen you sick like that before, you had me so worried. What an unusual illness—”

“Mother!” Whipped Cream blurted out, before Cassonade could utter another word. She had a horrible tendency to ramble, and if he didn’t take control of the conversation now, he would lose his chance. “I need to talk to you. Kind of has to do with why I’ve been so…sick lately.”

The merriment drained from Cassonade’s eyes in an instant. Her shoulders sagged, and Whipped Cream was struck by how old she suddenly seemed. Slowly, Cassonade wrapped up her loose threads and set aside her embroidery. “I suspected…” she muttered, more to herself than not, shaking her head. She then turned in her chair to face Whipped Cream squarely. With a great sigh, she said, “I know you’ve been wandering out into the faeries’ forest.” She sounded rather sad.

That took Whipped Cream by surprise. He blinked. “How did you…?”

“You weren’t the most subtle about it. Or the quietest.” A small smile tugged at Cassonade’s lips, but it fell all too quickly. “I hoped, and I hoped, that you’d never find your way there, but I suppose I should have known better, eh?”

Whipped Cream didn’t know what to say to that. So he ignored it, pressing forward with his burning question. “Why do people hang iron above their babies’ cradles?”

“Ah.” Cassonade looked away. “To ward off faeries. No one wants to risk a changeling child.”

A shiver ran down Whipped Cream’s spine. There was that word again. Changeling. Which led to his next question. “What’s a changeling?”

Cassonade was quiet for a very long moment. When she finally spoke, her words were slow as pulling teeth. “A faery child. The legends say the faeries will come and steal your child away, replacing it with one of their own.”

That left him with only one thing to ask: “Did you hang iron above my cradle?”

Cassonade lowered her face into her hands. “No,” she said from in-between her splayed fingers. “I didn’t.”

A strange calm settled over Whipped Cream. The anguish that had plagued his heart and mind simply vanished. No iron over the cradle, and he had always been terribly allergic. He had always known, he supposed. He needed Cassonade to admit it as much as he had needed to admit it to himself.

Just like that, everything clicked into place for him. It was as if his eyes were opening for the first time. He saw all the little lines that made up his life and connected him to the world, and he saw where they led him, where he belonged, where he was needed. And he accepted it. The faery had been right all along; he smiled at that.

But Cassonade wasn’t finished.

“I didn’t believe in faeries when I was younger,” she was saying. “I thought it was foolish to hang iron over a baby’s cradle. I laughed and told the midwife, ‘Then let the fae take my child!’ Of course, I was the fool.”

Any other faery might have walked away then and there. Whipped Cream drifted closer to Cassonade instead, so hunched over in her chair. Nothing was keeping him tethered to this life or these concerns, and still, he felt compelled to stay and listen.

Cassonade smiled sadly at him. “I knew you weren’t my baby when I saw you the next morning. You were wide awake, and silent, turning your head this way and that, really taking in everything around you. Not like any newborn I’d ever seen before.” Her voice wavered, and she paused. “I knew you weren’t mine, but when my father suggested drowning you, I couldn’t bear the thought. Faery or not, born from me or not, you were still only a baby.

“I insisted on raising you. Father couldn’t dissuade me, but he always warned me to not get too attached. Told me that you’d eventually go back to where you came, it was inevitable, you wouldn’t be mine forever. But how could I not?” Cassonade shook her head. Her dark eyes shimmered with tears, and her next words came out choked. “I hoped this would never happen. I hoped Father was wrong, or just being cruel. I hoped that I would never lose you. And here we are.” She burst into tears. Heavy, body-wracking sobs.

Whipped Cream moved in close. He leaned down and folded his arms around Cassonade and laid his chin on top of her head. He blinked away tears of his own. Of course; she had raised him for all these years, with only the utmost love and patience. That was what being a mother was all about, and she  _ was his _ . “Oh, Mama…” he murmured regretfully.

“You don’t have to go. You don’t,” Cassonade said when the worst of her sobs subsided. She sniffed. “You’re my baby. You always have been. I love you. Truly.”

Whipped Cream gave her one last squeeze before stepping back. “It’s… It’s not that. I love you, too, and I love being here with you.” He looked down into her tear-streaked face and offered her as kindly of a smile as he knew how to. “But I’ve always felt out of place and strange, you know that. And now I know why. This isn’t my world. I’ll never be truly happy here.” It was true. Already the walls of the house were beginning to press in on him. All-surrounding and yet devoid of life. He wanted the close embrace of the trees who knew and loved him so and the wind on his skin. The freedom to run wild and laugh and dance and the very thought of it all made him tremble. He wouldn’t be able to resist for much longer.

Cassonade bowed her head. “Yes, yes, I know. You’ve always been a restless, spritely thing. I can’t be the one to keep you from living your life to the fullest.” She stood up and wiped at her eyes, and she smiled. A quivering smile, but a smile, nonetheless. “Go on then, my little faery. I’ll miss you so much.”

Whipped Cream hardly needed encouraging. He sprang to the door, but, touching the cold door handle, he paused. He glanced over his shoulder one last time. “I won’t ever forget the years you spent loving me. Thank you.” He opened the door. “Goodbye, Mama.”

He didn’t hear Cassonade’s farewell, if she said anything at all. He stepped out into the warm summer air. The house and the town faded into obscurity in the back of his mind; all he could think of was the forest―he was going home! He smelled wildflowers.

He was swept up into a wild dance with the wind, and it carried off the echoes of his laughter. The whole world was a song, he realized, sung through the connections of every living being, and he wanted to dance forever. Everything was gold and love. He flung his arms wide and relished in the rightness of it all. When he reached the base of the hill, he ran, unable to bear being away from his beloved forest a moment longer. He didn’t look back at town once.

She was waiting for him, hanging upside down from a branch. Her hair had come undone from her usual bun, and hung all around her in wild strands. “You’re HOME!” she squealed, kicking her feet excitedly.

“I’m home,” he promised.

∞

“I told you so.” She could never resist gloating. “I was right all along!”

And he couldn’t resist interrupting said gloating. “Sure, but. You  _ were _ wrong about just one thing.”

She had been doing a self-satisfied strut across the grass. At his words, she stopped, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You told me Cassonade wasn’t my mother,” he said, smiling. “She was. She is.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i've been working on this fic rather painstakingly for a good while now--just because i could not make up my mind about how i wanted it to end. feels good to get it all out and finished up at long last :)!!
> 
> cassonade cookie is an oc i made on the spot for this fic! her name means brown sugar, and she's sort of a play on sugar swan (white sugar, essentially), since i see a lot of people headcanon that sugar swan is whipped cream's parent, or something. that's all :)


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